


Close to You

by cartouche



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxiety, Denial of Feelings, Ficlet, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mild Language, Post-Episode 6, Realization, Slice of Life, Vulnerable!Crowley, experienced!Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 02:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19781695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartouche/pseuds/cartouche
Summary: Sunlight dapples the water of the lake in St James Park, in a frustratingly beautiful way. There are children playing merrily, in ice-cream stained shirts, and even the ducks seem to be at peace for once, sleekly bobbing on gentle ripples.It’s perfect. It’sdisgusting.~It took Crowley 4 bottles of wine to finally admit his feelings, and now he's going to run and hide from them. It's thehealthyway of dealing with them.





	Close to You

Sunlight dapples the water of the lake in St James Park, in a frustratingly beautiful way. There are children playing merrily, in ice-cream stained shirts, and even the ducks seem to be at peace for once, sleekly bobbing on gentle ripples. 

It’s perfect. It’s _disgusting._

Crowley frowns deeply. This is a joke. It must be. Who would make such a beautiful day when he’s in such a terrible mood? Oh, the cruel and terrible irony of it all. A mother pushing a buggy smiles broadly at him, and he scowls back with such ferocity that she scurries past, eyes wide with mild terror. He’s just considering creating a nice, dark grey cloud to cover the sun, the first hints of it brooding on the horizon, when someone sits down on the bench next to him. 

The hiss is perched on the tip of his tongue, ready to tell whoever dared to interrupt his brooding to _fuck off_ with enough venom to kill a large mammoth, when he notices _exactly_ who has settled primly into the warm wood. The halo of curls, the angelically blue eyes, the concern gracing soft features. 

Well this is the  _ last _ thing he needs. 

“What?”Aziraphale throws a side-ways glance at him, before stretching out an arm, at the end of which is a hand clutching an ice-lolly. It’s Crowley’s favourite flavour. Raspberry. He doesn’t take it. “You didn’t answer your phone.” 

The lolly is brandished at him, and Crowley only, _only_ , grabs it at the last second, just as a large glob of red liquid is about to drip onto Aziraphale’s pristine, cream-coloured sleeve. It would’ve stained. His tongue flickers out to catch the droplet, and he does his resolute best to ignore the angel’s bemused stare. 

“You always answer your phone. I’m afraid you might return to a rather long voicemail message, as it took me several minutes to realise you hadn’t actually picked up.” Crowley licks his ice-lolly in irritated silence. This, of course, does nothing to dissuade the angel from talking, and he continues on quite pleasantly, hands folding neatly into his lap. _Bugger._ “Isn’t the weather lovely today? And so unusual for London. I must say, it is wonderful seeing all the children out enjoying thems-” 

“ _What_ do you want?” He spits it out as viciously as possible, but Aziraphale only blinks. 6000 years will desensitise you to even a demon’s anger, apparently. 

“Well, as I said, you didn’t answer my call.” He says it as though that explains why Crowley’s nice afternoon of brooding is being so recklessly interrupted. “And as you always pick up, I thought something must be wrong. I tried calling by your flat, but you didn’t seem to be there either. So then I tried that record store you like, and the lovely girl behind the counter said she hadn’t seen you, so then I went to-” 

“Yes, yes, I get it.” His treacherous heart thuds a little harder knowing that Aziraphale had _looked_ for him, and he scowls harder behind his glasses. “Well, here I am, fine and dandy. So if you could just-” He makes a shoo-ing gesture at the angel, which does precisely nothing to move him. In fact, he only settles himself further into the bench, closing his eyes to the sun as a soft smile spreads across his face. 

Crowley hates that face. _Hates_ it. 

His heart would be inclined to disagree. 

“You always pick up your phone. And when you didn’t I realised there must be something terribly wrong. So I’m going to sit here, and enjoy the sun, and you’ll tell me when you’re ready.” There’s that angelic _smugness_ , that pious surety that Crowley will of course, bear all his deepest darkest sins, out loud, to this ridiculous being. A thundercloud rolls over the sun, which will baffle meteorologists for years to come, and it begins to rain. A small huff emanates from the angel, and he opens his eyes to fish out a dusty and moth-eaten umbrella, which he holds carefully over them both. “Crowley, you’re _sulking_.” 

“Am not.” 

“Are too.” 

“Am no-” Aziraphale huffs again, and waves his hand. The cloud dissipates as suddenly as it appeared, although the sun is distinctly weaker than before. The umbrella is shook out, and returned to wherever it appeared from. Crowley chucks the lolly stick on the grass, just for the disapproving look thrown his way. He is still a _demon_ after all. Littering is expected. 

They sit in silence, on the now-damp park bench, watching the ducks shake raindrops from their wings and some toddlers pelt them with bread. His mind wanders, back to last night, back to the wine-drunk flush on the angel’s cheeks, how closely he pressed against him on the tattered old sofa above the bookshop. How _tempting_ it was to just reach out and touch him, soft and alive and chuckling happily. It was just the wine. It had to have been. Demons don’t feel that way, they _don’t_. Certainly not Crowley. Certainly not for an angel. He stands abruptly, striding back towards the Bentley, lungs tight and heart pounding for some horrible reason. They were just _friends_ , and always would be. Barely that in fact, enemies working together on occasion, acquaintances out of necessity. 

It was ridiculous to think otherwise. 

Aziraphale is practically at a trot to catch up with him, hurrying over the path and saying something inane, which Crowley is happy to tune out. He waves him off, like swatting at a particularly bothersome insect, says something about seeing him soon, jams the key in the ignition, and speeds away before he can think any more about it. 

Bloody _angel_. 

~ 

The trouble is, he doesn’t see Aziraphale soon. Someone less discerning might venture that Crowley was going out of his way to _avoid_ him, but that person might also find all their left shoes missing, and the shower fixed on freezing. He was just busy, and as a very busy demon, found lots of reasons to never be home, rarely in London, and definitely not in bookshops, parks or sushi restaurants. 

His voicemails fills up embarrassingly quickly. Mostly it’s recounting of pointless events in pointless days, sometimes it’s tentative questions about lunch, and just once Crowley hears that soft voice wobble slightly asking if he’d done something wrong. 

He takes to sitting and listening to them in the evenings, until the ache gets too great, and he has to go and threaten the plants to feel better. 

If only he had said no that night. No to dinner, no to sitting in Aziraphale’s cosy apartment, no to that first glass of wine, and definitely no to the fourth bottle. He was an idiot to think that saying something would change anything. He’d seen the way the angel’s face fell, uncertainty hiding what he knew was _disgust_ , corners of his mouth twitching down. 

Stupid Crowley. Stupid, _stupid_ Crowley. 

And now he’s ruined it all. 6000 years of … whatever they were. The apocalypse, Armageddon, all of it didn’t mean a thing, because he’d royally screwed it up. The angel was just being nice, trying to salvage something out of a sense of vague loyalty and angelic forgiveness, but deep-down he knew it would never be the same. Why did he have to say it? Why couldn’t he have swallowed those words back down with another sip of wine. 

The harsh buzzer breaks him sharply out of his reverie, and he sweeps across the room, opening the door before he can think. 

Aziraphale is standing there. His bow-tie is faintly crooked and he stares up at Crowley expectantly. 

“Can I come in?” He almost says no, almost closes the door in his face and sends him away, but instead he sighs, shifting out of the way and holding the door open. He can feel the way his pulse quickens, as the angel steps past him, a gentle, familiar scent filling Crowley’s nose, but he elects to ignore it all, pulling his glasses off as the lock clicks shut. He chooses not to throw them at the wall in frustration, although that’s very much what he’d like to do. 

“Don’t the plants look _lovely_? You really do have a green thumb.” The plants are leaning into him, glowing with his praise. They’ll start getting ideas. A neat thumb strokes delicately down one verdant leaf. “What’s this one?” 

“Banana palm.” It’s barely a grunt, but Aziraphale looks pleased nonetheless, practically glowing with this new information. It’s a wonder people don’t catch on to what he is. “What have I told you about being nice to them?” 

“Oh yes, sorry.” Watching the angel attempt a frown would be hilarious in any other circumstances, and he puts his hands on his hips sternly. “Mind your manners, young plant!” 

It’s better than nothing. 

“What are you _doing_ here, Aziraphale?” 

The sigh in Crowley’s voice causes a troubled expression to pass over that kind face, before it brightens carefully. “Well, I tried calling to see if you’d like lunch an-” Maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale had forgotten. Maybe he was too drunk, too oblivious, too nice to acknowledge the words, fading out of his memory as soon as they had been placed there. A small spark of hope kindles firmly in Crowley’s chest. 

“And to talk about … well, _that night_.” 

And just like that a crashing, icy waterfall of shock and fear quash it out of existence. 

Oh no. Oh no, no, no, _no_. 

He’d tried running away from it all, away from _him_ , away from his feelings, feelings that no demon in their right mind should have. Avoidance was far better than garbled admissions of- 

“Look, I …” His brain stumbles, grasping desperately for excuses that the angel just _might_ buy. 

“You don’t have to explain Crowley. It’s quite alright.” Except it isn’t. And he’s being _kind_ , fixing the demon with that soft, fond gaze, and it hurts all the more, knowing he’s still being so damn _nice_ about it. 

“I didn’t mean to- I was _drunk_ \- I’d rather we just- we forget all about it. Honestly. No point in … dwelling on the past. It’s the past after all. It’s gone, finished, done with. Can’t go back and change it now. So let’s just pretend it never-” He’s cut off by the feeling of a hand gripping softly at his elbow, and he blinks down at the angel, wondering exactly how he got so close so quickly. He’s mesmerising like this, the fathomless depths of blue eyes piercing every inch of Crowley’s being, and a shiver runs down his spine. 

“Will you shut up.” There’s no malice in it, a smile playing around Aziraphale’s lips. “I … Well, I think I love you too.” 

His mind draws a blank. A complete and utter blank. For a single, horrendously long moment, Anthony J. Crowley, original sin incarnate, world’s best demon, is utterly and completely speechless. And then the thoughts kick start again in a frantic, chaotic flurry, even faster than the heartbeat pounding in his ears at 1000mph. A weak laugh falls from his lips, as if dropped by accident. “Well of _course_ you do, in an angelic sense. You love everything, have to, really, it’s part of the job description, creatures great and small and all that, I suppose that even extends to demons-” 

“Crowley.” He’s cut off by another hand gripping his other elbow, and he’s again acutely reminded of how close they are, toes touching, almost nose to nose. “I’m in _love_ with you.” 

Well there’s no mistaking that. Aziraphale isn’t pulling away. The universe hasn’t collapsed around them. A bolt of divine energy hasn’t shot through his heart, discorporating him instantly. 

Oh. 

And that’s what he says. “Oh.” It only adds to the bemused look painting the angel’s features. “Oh.” There it is again. His mouth gapes, brain searching for something else to say, and a tiny part of him squawks triumphantly, with a very loud _I told you so_. He tells it to shut up. 

Aziraphale is still patiently standing there, and Crowley realises belatedly he’s waiting for him to say something, betrayed by the slight nervous furrow right between his brows. And Crowley knows that, of course, because he knows _almost_ everything about him, every expression, his favourite book, where he buys his loose-leaf tea, how much he loves sushi. 

“Well that’s good then.” A pause. “That we both, uhm- well, you know.” What in the literal _hell_ are you supposed to do in this situation? “Means no more voicemail messages at least.” Oh no, oh wait, oh _shit_ , that clearly wasn’t what he was supposed to say, judging by the small, polite smile carved firmly on to his lips, and a melancholy poorly hidden in his eyes. The angel goes to pull away, and it’s Crowley’s turn to grip at him, like a drowning man to a life ring. He winces at how clear the desperation is, pathetic really, but at least Aziraphale has paused, a glimmer of hope visible again. 

“I don’t know what to do.” His voice sounds truly pitiful, breaking on the last syllable. “ _Tell_ me what to do.” 

The look he receives is truly _loving_ , and it fills a hole in Crowley that he didn’t know was there. 

“Oh you dear, old, silly serpent.” He says, and then he leans in and kisses him. 

For the second time that millennia, Crowley’s brain short circuits. 

There’s just so _much_ , the soft warmth of lips on his, the flutter of eyelashes on his cheek, the hands sliding to sit on his hips, thumbs gently stroking at the seams of his shirt. And suddenly, he gets it, why the humans enjoy this so much, the physical closeness, not like in hell, clambering and crushing just to be on top, but just, touching, _feeling_ , and yeah, yeah ok, he likes that. His hands fumble for a moment, wavering unsure, before fisting in smooth lapels, trying to drag the angel, _his_ angel, even closer. He feels Aziraphale chuckle breathlessly, and pull away, tries to follow him for as long as he can, before gentle hands force him to part. 

“My dear, there are better ways to kiss than simply smashing mouths together.” Crowley’s brows raise incredulously, threatening to touch the top of his forehead. 

“And how would you know, exactly?” 

“Well, I am 6023 years old. You didn’t think I’d only learnt the _gavotte_ , did you?” And now his cheeks are on fire, flaming red-hot at the sight of the twinkle in the angel’s eyes. 

“Oh, right.” Well that’s … surprising. Surprise, that’s definitely what he’s feeling, and not at all jealous. Maybe a teeny, tiny bit jealous. Alright, there’s at least a spoonful of jealousy in there somewhere. But it’s quickly erased when Aziraphale tilts his head back and presses into Crowley once more, lips meeting his and then parting and then ... Oh. He’d certainly learnt a thing or two. Oh. 

A sly tongue curls it’s way into his mouth and he’s lost to the sensation, of feeling, for the first time, _complete_. 

~ 

Later, when the sun is setting lazily, pouring thick golden light in through Crowley’s windows, he’ll ask about dinner. And Aziraphale will smile and kiss him on the cheek and say “The Ritz, or Beck at Brown’s? I hear they have a simply delicious parmesan cream truffle, and I’ve been dying to try it.” 

Crowley will untangle himself from their embrace, stretch indulgently, and only half-ignore the gaze that drops to the sliver of skin bared between his shirt and jeans, and the cheeks that go deliciously pink afterwards. “It’s up to you, angel.” It’s different now, how he says it, sure of himself and the world. All those years, in denial, and it was right there in front of him. Waiting to be plucked like a ripe apple. His lips curl mischievously at the analogy, and Aziraphale’s smile is brighter than the sun. 

“The Ritz it is then.” 

**Author's Note:**

> bashed this out in 2 hours whoops
> 
> blame the Carpenters for putting me in a dreamy mood ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
